Upon his heavy seat at the head of the great hall, Gunnar rested an uneasy head upon a massive fist. The place of honor had been his father’s and his grandfather’s before that. No one spoke of any leader before that, so great had been their collective glory. Now the task fell to him, whether he desired it or not.

His blond beard itched him, and the fur-lined cape wasn’t sitting right this evening. The others dined, oblivious as usual to the worries of the village. Gunnar wished inwardly he didn’t know that Olfsted’s cows had caught the pox nor that the Gyarson twins had spoiled a vat and a half of grain. Frankly, all he wanted to do was smash things, preferably some Exiles’ heads.

Yet here he must sit, he mused to himself gruffly. Shifting in the uncomfortable throne he moved his hand from his chin to the pommel of his warhammer. His eyes flicked about for relief but all they saw were tasks—the boar should be turned, Alfgeir should be leaving for watch, and Brunhilde shouldn’t be drinking again.